Page 57 of Fall onto me

“You’re free?”

“Yup.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he replies, but there’s a croak in his tone.

Then and only then do I allow the relief to hit me, for one that I’m not having to fight off intruders and the other that he’s here.

He walks me back out and flicks a lamp on in the living room, showcasing a stack of presents under the tree.

“We need to start the hot chocolate.” He smiles.

“Oh, I’ll get it!” Before I can walk into the kitchen, Sophie is rushing inside. She catches sight of the tree before she sees Foster on the couch. “Santa came!” she sings, and then her eyes pan to her brother, and they light up more than they did a moment ago. “Santa really did come.” She sobs, rushing over to him.

Foster wraps his little sister in his arms, giving her a moment to collect herself as she cries on his shoulder. “I knew you would come home.” She wipes her nose. “I knew it.” She leans forward to look at his face and then slaps a tiny palm against his chest. “If you speed and get in trouble again, I’ll throw your guitar in the ocean.”

We laugh; it’s free and wild. Giggling in the living room surrounded by the twinkling lights on the tree.

I wipe away my own tears to focus on the task at hand, Christmas morning with my little family.

Sophie is making little stacks, all of them for her. She deserved the best Christmas ever. “Here is yours.” She smiles at Foster. “From Gram Gram.”

He chuckles, setting it to the side. “I’ll wait for her to come home to open it.”

Sophie frowns and squints her brows. “Do umm … do I have to wait?”

“Nope.” He shakes his phone. “I’ll get it all on tape.”

She leans forward and cups her hands around her mouth. “She got you socks.” She giggles, sticking her tongue out. “I hope when I get old people don’t buy me socks.”

Foster throws his head back in laughter. “I’m not old.”

She raises her brows before returning to the tree. “Shadow?” she questions.

I grin. “That’s me.”

She hands me the bright pink box, wrapped haphazardly with a little crooked bow that isn’t tied correctly at all. “It’s not perfect.”

“Itisperfect.”

“Open it,” Foster encourages. I not so carefully unwrap, revealing a Vans shoes box. “Oh!” I grin. “There’s no shoes in there.”

Soph is watching us carefully, with her hands underneath her chin. I lift the lid to my no-shoes-shoe-box and brace myself when I see it filled of pictures and mementos.

“Foster,” I breathe out slowly, grabbing the first picture. It’s him sitting on his bike, helmet on, and me leaning against him, my elbow on his knee. I have the biggest, cheesy grin on my face.

Another photograph, him holding my limp hand. I don’t remember this because I was in a coma.

There are other memories throughout, wristbands from clubs and the little metal tops from soda cans.

“What are these?” I ask, examining a big stack of receipts that are pinned together by a paperclip. “Jack’s.” I smile, leaning over to kiss him.

“I hope you like it … I keep it under my bed,” he admits, and that adorable grin he gives me nearly makes me melt into the paisley couch.

“I love it!”

He reaches into his wallet. “And a Target gift card so you can decorate your side of the room, because it looks terribly sad.”

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